Excerpt: "Two Decembers and Some Months"

The moon is a constant. The stars get all the attention like stars do, but stars move and stars die. The moon is the meticulous bastard of the night sky. Sure, it moves, but it's always along the same avenues, always to the same places and shops and late night eateries of tiny hours; it is always booked in advance. Sure, it weens and wanes, but it lets us know it's schedule; it always tells us how much of it will be in attendance. And it's always there, our eyes just aren't always good enough to see it. I love it most, like most people, when it's big and white. It takes me places when it's in that jolly large mood. I focus my eyes on it and let the peripherals of my eyes fill in whats around me.

It's Thursday right now, but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 753 days ago and we are on my back porch sharing a cigarette in happy silence.

It's today Thursday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's 3 Augusts ago and we are on a rented balcony and we can hear waves as we watch the rain.

It's nearly Friday but the sides of my eyes tell me it's a month plus some days ago and I'm pulling Nicole's cigaretted hand towards my mouth.

Two minutes to Friday and the sides of my eyes tell me I'm laying on a blanket over sand holding Marie a couple of Marchs past.
I don't know how I keep losing days but get stuck in weeks; the twelves and the rotation just don't suit me very well. My peripherals always just show me what's done; regret is the best television.

I rarely miss my bed. Whenever I curl up alone in my comforter it's just been a bust of a night; no spirits and smoke. I prefer couches and floors with make shift blankets of coats and second shirts, they always let me know what memories I should have. I am no meticulous bastard of anything except the wave and tide ebb and flow; the dead jellyfish or lacadaisical crustaceon.

Reboot.

My old blog was shit and boring, this will probably just be more of the same and I'll get tired of it after a month or next week or something. I'm going to try this time to not just fill it will boring work related things and basic things about what's going on with me because as I said in my last sentence, it was shit and boring.

That's not to say I'm only going to post some cerebral stuff that makes you question everything or even think really, this is still going to be just about myself after all, but I'm going to try and put pictures up more. I'm also going to post some of the things I write fiction wise, it's mostly rubbish but I enjoy doing it.

There it is, more pictures, less monotony, and the probable inclusion of fiction.

I'll give it 5 posts. Including what's already on here.

I Know

Sometimes, I just don't know things.
I see things I want to see, pretty people and situations and hats that I can't pull off and it's all just gone, really.
It's gone because it's happened and happened is gone, and no matter how distressed your jeans are and how grainy your film is it won't ever be happening.
Sometimes when I just don't know things I feel like the big thick tubes going out from my heart just get all tangled up like yarn or string or a shoe lace, something or another.
I read things that hit me harder than life and I wonder why I'm here and wish my here was there, just without the T.
The same day dreams have sailed around my head for years and as that S on the end of year shows something longer the less it seems like they'll be anything but.
Most times, I just don't know things.
Ill fitting and worse prepared for most of it; I get nervous if my belt clashes and I'm a long way from anything worth. My sentences are too not simple and I dislike it most the time, but i can't slim them and trim them; I breed American sentences.
Most times I find my own ideas out there without even looking that hard and it makes me want to cry from happy and sadness; it's nice to not be alone in your process, it's nice to know you're an explorer.
I want to scream pop-art and my words flash pink to yellow, then carve a book into a sculpture and post pictures on the internet to be stumbled upon late at night and late in the afternoon or morning, or even evening.
Is everything pre-posed? Or am I just that bad at the effortlessness of everything?
Are the greatest thoughts thought? Or we are just typical. Everyone wants more and I don't much believe in destiny; just in stating the obvious.
I wished I'd climbed more trees as a child and maybe broken my arm; if there's something I wanted move than anything as a child it was a broken arm. I went to the hospital and all I got is this crooked nose.
I would enjoy a stark room but am too messy to accommodate; I would enjoy a bath with feet but only have a shower.
There is no prowess for a paintbrush in my fingers, no dexterity for music, but I do have tiny mouths at the end of each tip.
My beard isn't full and I believe I'm ready to be in love again.
Where will the kids find the wonder in our generation? We paint no ladies on our planes and we know the dangers of cigarettes. Was the Jazz Age called the Jazz Age during the Jazz Age? Was that timeless 40's look timeless in the 40's? How much of what happened is just clever marketing and how much of your own memory is just of the pictures in your grandma's photo album?
I miss everything I never and ever met and have only heard a song or two of every band you've ever heard, but not enough to form an opinion.
Time is just clocks and that ow in nostalgia.
This is all i know.